Saint Francis (46 page)

"His father is dying, Brother Leo; he sent me to tell Francis to come quickly so that he can see him before it is too late. He seems to be sorry for everything he did. Perhaps he wants to ask his son's forgiveness."

I thought of those first high-spirited days when we shook the dust of the world from our feet and stepped into God's fire. How many years, Lord, how many centuries had passed since then!

"Where is his shelter, Brother Leo?"

"I'll come with you," I said. "It's there, between the rocks. Let's hope he's not praying; otherwise he won't be able to speak to us."

We climbed up to the hut and found it empty. "He must be praying in his cave," I said. "Let's go there, but very quietly. We mustn't disturb him."

We halted at the cave's entrance. At first we saw nothing in the darkness, but we were able to hear a sighing, imploring voice: "O my poor crucified Hope, my poor crucified Love! O Christ!" After a pause, the voice resumed in a tone that was even more suppliant, more despairing: "O my poor crucified Hope, my poor crucified Love! O Christ!"

Father Silvester started to enter, but I seized hold of his frock. "For God's sake, don't go near him," I whispered in his ear. "He gave me strict orders not to call him or touch him while he was praying. 'If you touch me,' he said, 'I shall crumble into a thousand pieces.' "

We remained outside the cave, one to the right of the entrance, the other to the left, waiting for him to finish his prayer and emerge so that we could speak to him. The sun reached the zenith, declined, was about to set, but Francis, kneeling and motionless, his arms spread wide, continued his imploration, repeating the same words over and over again. Finally, at dusk, we heard a deep, despairing sigh. Francis rose and came out, staggering as though drunk, his eyes red from blood and the flow of tears. We extended our hands to him, but he did not see us--his eyeballs had rolled inward: they were gazing at his bowels. He advanced several paces, tripping because he was unable to see. Then he halted; he seemed to be struggling to remember which direction he had to take to find his hut. He raised his hands to his temples: he felt suddenly dizzy. But he soon came round and began to walk again.

We followed behind on tiptoe in order not to startle him. As he was finally nearing his shelter, however, he heard the sound of a stone which had stirred beneath our feet. He turned. At first he did not recognize us, but as we came closer his face began to beam, his lips quivered, and he smiled. He held out his arms; Father Silvester fell into them.

"Brother Francis, Brother Francis, I've missed you so very much, I'm so glad to see you!"

Francis said nothing. He began to sway. Supporting him under the armpits, we helped him into the shelter and sat him down on the sheepskin which Brother Wolf had brought for him.

He turned to Father Silvester. "What has happened to the brothers?" he asked anxiously.

Father Silvester lowered his head and did not reply.

"What has happened to the brothers?" Francis repeated in an anguished voice, clasping the priest's hand. "Have no pity on me, Father Silvester. I want the truth!"

"They've changed route, Brother Francis. They've gone down to the plain to graze your flock in rich pastures."

"And what about holy Poverty?"

"They want to clothe and feed her, fatten her up, put sandals on her feet. And the Portiuncula seems too abject and despicable for them to deign to live there. They've gone through all the towns and villages collecting gold, and Brother Elias has just laid the foundations of an immense church three stories high and has sent for celebrated artisans and painters to decorate it. He says absolute Poverty must dwell in a palace, which is exactly what they are building for her."

"And holy Love?"

"The brothers have dispersed, some this way, some that. The old ones, our first brothers, refuse to obey the new shepherds; and when the new ones meet them on the road they laugh at their torn frocks and bare feet, and instead of addressing them as brothers they call them 'the barefooted ones.' "

"And holy Simplicity?"

"She's dead as well, Brother Francis. They've opened new schools. Some of them run to Bologna, others to Paris, and they study until they're so horribly clever they can shoe a flea. They collect thick tomes and mount the pulpit and give discourses, toiling and moiling to prove that Christ is God, that He was crucified, and that on the third day He rose from the dead. And they mix everything up so much that your mind turns upside down and your heart to ice. The day the wise men began to speak was the last day Christ was ever resurrected."

Suddenly--before we had time to prevent him--Francis fell face down on the ground. He remained there for a long time without speaking, except that every so often we heard a reproachful murmur: "God, O God, why? Why? It's my fault!" Then he would relapse into silence and begin to beat his forehead against the ground. We raised him up by force. He looked around.

"Brother Leo!"

"Here, Brother Francis, at your command."

"Open the Gospel, let your finger fall on a verse, and read."

I took the Gospel, opened it, and let my finger come down in the middle of the page. Then I went to the doorway, where there was more light.

"Read!"

Leaning over, I read: "The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered, every man to his home, and will leave me alone."

"More!" ordered Francis in an anguished voice. "What else does it say?"

"Yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me."

"Enough!"

He took Father Silvester's hand.

"You heard Christ's voice, my brother. Though the friars have scattered, you must not feel sad. I myself allowed the pain to overwhelm me for an instant; but, as you see, we are not alone. The Father is with us, so why should we be afraid? He shall lead the sheep back along the uphill road; He shall nurture His flock with hunger once again." A long silence followed. Francis was plunged in despair, but also in hope. We could sense that he was extremely far from us, far away in the future. Now and then strange sounds passed from his mouth into the deep silence, sounds like barking from a remote corner of the earth. It was as though he were a sheep dog barking at the flock to make them reassemble and return to the fold. Presently he fell asleep for an instant, but opened his eyes immediately and looked at us, smiling.

"I just had a very odd dream, my brothers. Listen: The friars were gathered in the Portiuncula and Elias was portioning out the world among them. A ragged, barefooted monk came by. Seeing them, he stopped and shook his head. One of the brothers was moved to anger. 'What are you doing, staring at us like that and shaking your head?' he shouted. 'Why do you go about barefooted, with a frock full of holes, your hair uncut, your unwashed body splattered with mud? Don't you know that our new general has expelled Poverty from the order? Go to your monastery and take a bath and get yourself some sandals and a clean frock so that you won't put the rest of us to shame.' 'I refuse!' 'You refuse, do you?' shrieked Elias, jumping to his feet. 'I'll have you lashed--forty strokes!' 'Go ahead.' 'What is your name?' 'First let me have the forty strokes.' When the ragged monk had been whipped, and the blood was flowing, Elias repeated: 'Now tell us your name.' 'Francis,' the other replied, 'Francis of Assisi.' " He looked at us. The smile had disappeared from his face.

"They thrash me, they expel me even in my sleep," he murmured. And then: "Glory be to God."

He closed his eyes. We realized that he had already departed and was far far away from us.

Father Silvester glanced in my direction, as though hoping I would give him the courage to speak to Francis.

"Brother Francis," I said, "come back from wherever you are, and listen. Father Silvester has a sad message for you. Command him to speak."

Francis pricked up his ears; he was struggling to hear me.

"What did you say, Brother Leo? A message? What message?"

"Ask Father Silvester. He's the one who will deliver it to you."

"Silvester, my brother," he said, clasping the priest's hand, "my heart can bear whatever message you bring. What is this message? Who is it from?"

"From your father, Brother Francis; from Sior Bernardone."

Francis crossed his arms and lowered his head, saying nothing.

"From your father," repeated Father Silvester. "He sent me to tell you to come so that he can see you and speak to you before he delivers up his soul to God." Francis remained motionless.

"Your mother is inconsolable. She lies fallen on his pillow, weeping and lamenting. She is waiting for you, only for you, Brother Francis; she is waiting for you to come so that she may see you and be comforted. . . . Come!"

Francis neither spoke nor moved.

"Didn't you hear? What answer shall I give?"

Suddenly Francis rose, stretched his arm out toward Assisi, and traced the sign of the cross in the air.

"Farewell, Father," he whispered. "Forgive me!"

He turned to Silvester. "If you reach him in time, my brother, tell him I cannot leave this mountain. You know how a lion seizes a hare and bangs him playfully against the ground, don't you? Well, God has seized me in the same way. I cannot escape; I am writhing in God's claws and cannot escape. . . . Say to my father: 'Till we meet again!' "

"And to your mother?"

"The same: 'Till we meet again!' "

"Have you no pity for them?" Father Silvester asked hesitatingly. "They're your parents! Request God's permission. His goodness is infinite; He'll grant your request."

"I already asked Him once."

"And what was His reply?"

" 'I am your mother and father': that was His reply." Father Silvester bowed and kissed Brother Francis' hand.

"Farewell, Brother Francis. Act as God guides you."

"Until we meet again, my brother," answered Francis, and he closed his eyes.

He wished to remain alone. We both left and went to my hut, where Father Silvester stopped for a moment to look around him. Stones, huge rocks, a few desiccated brambles were all that he saw on the ground; in the sky, two circling hawks.

"God wears a different expression below on the plain," he murmured. "Jehovah inhabits this peak; Christ lives below and promenades over the fields. How can you bear it here, Brother Leo?"

"I can't, but Francis bears it for both of us," I replied. Then I went into my hut to fetch him some bread.

"For your trip. You'll be hungry."

We embraced.

"Watch carefully over Francis," he admonished me in parting. "God is tearing him to shreds and will eat him. Don't you see: only his two wounded eyes are still alive--nothing else. If they are extinguished as well, Brother Leo, the light will go out of the world."

Once again the moon rose, set, rose, set. First spring, then summer came and went. From our elevation we watched the change in the earth's face. The green wheat on the plain turned yellow and was reaped; vines that had been mere black stumps gave forth leaves and buds, then hanging grapes, and were vintaged. All this time our mountain remained as it was: flowerless and desolate. September arrived, autumn: Francis' favorite feast day was drawing near. He now ate nothing but a single mouthful of bread, drank only a single sip of water, abstaining for the sake of the True Cross. This adoration had begun years earlier, and he had written in the Rule, with his own hand: "We worship Thee, Lord, we sing Thy praises, because with Thy Holy Cross Thou didst deign to redeem the sins of the world." And now as the fourteenth of September, the date of the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, drew nearer, Francis was like a rapidly melting candle in front of a crucifix. He was unable to sleep any more. Night and day he kept his eyes fixed on heaven, as though expecting the thrice-hallowed symbol to appear amidst lightning flashes and angelic wings. Once he took me by the hand and pointed to the sky.

"You look too, Brother Leo. Maybe you'll see it. Scripture says that the Cross will loom in the heavens when the Lord comes to judge. Brother Leo, I have a premonition that the Lord is coming to judge--now!"

He glanced at his hands and feet.

"Man's body is a cross, Brother Leo. Spread your arms and you'll see. And upon this cross God is crucified."

He raised his arms toward heaven.

"Christ, my beloved," he murmured, "one favor I ask of Thee, one favor before I die. Let me feel Thy sufferings and holy Passion in my body and soul, let me feel them as intensely as is possible for a sinful mortal. . . . Thy sufferings and holy Passion, Lord . . ." he kept repeating over and over again, as though delirious.

He wrapped his hands and feet in his frock.

"They hurt!" he whispered. "Go, Brother Leo. Leave me alone with my pain. You have my blessing."

I departed, feeling extremely uneasy. Lord, how was his flame ever going to subside and avoid reducing him to ashes! As the feast of the Cross approached I saw the extent to which Francis was being daily wasted away by his joy, anguish, and pain. He tried to conceal his torments, but I sensed that the pains in his hands and feet were unbearable. He was struggling with his feeble, exhausted body to relive Christ's Passion, to endure its superhuman suffering. Would human flesh be able to withstand such affliction?